Mortal love. That's what draws us. Your taste, how fast you move
and how soon you die. We see how with every moment you quicken with
your own death and it is so beautiful—it moves us, it captivates
us—

— Juda Trent, who is “neither man nor woman but a thing that moved
in light” (Morrow, ISBN 0061051705, c.2004, p.338)

I hate to fall to cliché, but “I don' know ‘bout Art,
but I knows what I like . . .”

Well, I know a fair amount about Art, but I sometimes have
difficulty expressing it. And the more I read Ms. Hand, the more
I realize I cannot write effectively about her work.

Like Glimmering,
this is a dense, slippery perusal. It is one of the most thought-provoking
studies of supernatural interlacing with this world I've experienced.
Like the work of Sean Stewart or John Crowley, it seems more a natural
occurrence and an acceptable conclusion to events that are incongruous
in a modern, clockwork universe. Certainly a romantic notion, but
one validated from the traditions in Art, History and Mythology.
And personally, in paraphrasing the great Victorian fantasist Arthur
Machen, I'd rather delight in shuddering with the thunder than be
backstage watching someone roll a cannon ball along the theatre floor.
Ultimate Knowledge will tease mankind forever. That's why we invented
Science as well as Philosophy.

And, of course, Religion.

It can easily be googled for plot points, so let me just quickly outline
that this is a story split between a contemporary viewpoint and a Victorian
one, more specifically grounded in a Pre-Raphaelite obsession with
muses, fairyworlds, and Blakeian love notions. It is not a New Age
doily of angels and damsels, nor is it a matinee fantasy of Dracula
love bites. Like Generation Loss, it is about the creation
of Art and its boundaries—both ethical as well as physical—and the
possibility that the world can change as a result.

I'm prejudiced. I consider this the noblest of pursuits and
one of the few lines of inquiry where the accumulation of wisdom
is more important than proving any objective, empirical truth. In
this realm, the journey is the destination, because, just as death
inevitably sanctions the closure of this world's sensory interrogation,
rational conclusion must be adjourned for any perceived intimacy.

And, to upgrade from cliché to pun, let me put you
into the, ah, hands of the author and point you to this interview: